


In the Drunk Tank

by Madypants



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunklock, First Kiss, M/M, stag do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:46:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madypants/pseuds/Madypants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What I imagine happened after John and Sherlock got kicked out of the ghost-date's apartment.  </p><p>This is my first fic!  Eeep!</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Drunk Tank

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John swore under his breath. Sherlock remained faceplanted in the carpet with his arse in the air for quite a lot longer than John would have thought, and it gave him ample time to contemplate the possibilities of such a position.

“He’s clueing for looks!” That’s right, get your mind back on the, what was it? A case? The case.

Sherlock got up on his knees and daintily clicked his magnifying glass closed. He then absently wiped the vomit from the corner of his open mouth, looking more like someone who has just delivered a spectacular blowjob than someone who had been vomiting on the floor. This whole situation was giving John too many uncomfortable ideas. Just as he was fully setting into this less than platonic reverie about his former flat mate, John was vaguely aware of gruff voices and firm hands herding him out of the crime scene. He heard Sherlock incoherently protesting and watched him as he was half carried down the stairs out of the flat, gesticulating floppily, but not actively trying to escape. John’s ears perked up at the mention of Lestrade’s name, and he relaxed a little bit, allowing himself to be shuffled into the police car waiting at the curb. On the ride to wherever it was they are being taken, John hazily noticed a weight on his shoulder and soft, curly black hair brushing against his cheek and neck. He periodically felt a little thrill run up his arm, as the jostling of the car made Sherlock’s limp hand brush against his. This was nice, being close the Sherlock. They were best friends now, it was official, and yet they still hadn’t ever hugged. John suddenly thought of Sherlock kneeling over him after pulling him from the Guy Fawkes bonfire, caressing his face, calling his name imploringly, deep concern written plainly on his usually enigmatic face. Sherlock was capable of such tenderness. But then he remembered Mary there with him, and a pang of guilt turned over in his stomach. He signed heavily and learned his head against Sherlock resignedly, but pulled his hand back into his lap.

John groggily stumbled out of the police car when the door was opened for him, and staggered towards what was decidedly not Scotland Yard. Why had they mentioned Lestrade, then? He was too tired to ask questions, and just desperately wanted a place to lie down. The drunk tank had a place to lie down. Alright, then. He watched two officers lift the passed out consulting detective over the threshold of the cell and unceremoniously deposit him on the floor. John managed to tumble into the single cot at the end of the cell and sat with his head resting against the wall.

Sherlock looked so innocent sleeping on the floor. John was reminded that he thought Sherlock looked about 12 when they first met. Moriarty and the two-year absence had aged him, but John laughed to himself that the man still held his liquor like a 12 year old. He took pity on his friend and decided to try and rouse him, herd him onto the cot. This proved to be rather more difficult than expected, as Sherlock was heavier than he looked, and when John did manage to coax him into consciousness, Sherlock would grasp at John’s sleeves and pull him down on top of him. He would mumble frantically and breath, “Don’t go, don’t go,” his lips brushing against John’s ear.

“I’m not going anywhere without you,” John said with friendly reassurance, “Just come with me over to the cot so you won’t be so cold and stiff in the morning.”

“Liar,” Sherlock slurred under his breath, as he slung his arms around John’s neck and allowed himself to be hoisted onto the small cot. They landed together and Sherlock did not drop his arms from their resting place on John’s shoulders. John did not let go of his supportive grip on Sherlock’s ribcage. Quite the contrary, to John’s surprise, Sherlock slid his arms further up on John’s strong shoulders and rested his forehead against John’s collarbone. He looked so sad bend over that way, but John supposed it was just the intoxication combined with the height difference. Alcohol was a depressant, after all. John softened his grip on Sherlock, now that he was steady, and ran his hands soothingly along Sherlock’s boney back. Sherlock might still remember this in the morning, but it was worth the risk to have the chance to be demonstrative with his friend. That’s what getting drunk together was about, wasn’t it? To help emotionally constipated blokes like them express their feelings? It was certainly less contrived than pretending to Jump off a building or not know how to deactivate a bloody bomb.

John felt Sherlock’s head shifting against his shoulder and his hair tickled John’s cheek. A nose brushed against his throat and delicately turned into soft, slightly parted lips. John unconsciously drew Sherlock closer to him with the hand that had been absently petting his back. The lips moved slowly up John’s neck to the corner of his jaw, depositing soft kisses all along the way. Sherlock’s lips touched John’s ear again and whispered, “I can’t follow where you’re going.” John didn’t know what to make of that, but he let Sherlock pull back from his ear and gently kiss his temple, his cheek, his jaw line, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, press his lips tentatively at the corner of John’s mouth. John swallowed and pressed his fingers into Sherlock’s waist, parting his lips in anticipation. They simultaneously tilted their heads and moved together slowly, eyes closed, each holding his breath in case the smallest disruption might bring them back to reality. Sherlock cupped John’s face in his large hand and opened his mouth, deepening the kiss. John found himself grasping at Sherlock’s arms and the small of his back in a strange imitation of Sherlock’s earlier drunken pleas. He slipped his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, longing to be closer, more connected with the mysterious man that he called his best friend. Sherlock responded in kind, running his tongue along John’s upper lip and then catching the bottom lip between his teeth, sucking slightly and pulling John towards him by the back of his neck.

Now they were lying on the cot, John half on top of Sherlock, legs entwined, and tangle of scarf and jumper and long lanky limbs. They pressed against each other, frantically grabbing at whatever bit of flesh gave them purchase, desperate to be as close as two people in separate bodies can be. John started moving his kisses down Sherlock’s face, along his jaw, his long, sinewy neck, his protruding collar bone, and felt the sure sign of Sherlock’s arousal pressed against his thigh. Burying his face in Sherlock’s disheveled curls to run his tongue along the shell of Sherlock’s ear, he almost instinctively started reaching down to work is greedy fingers into the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. Just as his hand grasped Sherlock’s sharp hipbone, he noticed that his partner was no longer writhing and moaning against him. John propped himself up on his elbow and saw Sherlock’s head flopped over to one side, breathing the regular, deep breaths of sleep.

John retracted his hand out of Sherlock’s trousers as he slowly realized what he had been about to do. He sat on the edge of the cot and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, sighing and slight disbelief. He slid down onto the floor of the cell, his back resting on the wall, and hung his head between his knees. Maybe he would fall asleep and not remember this in the morning. He had a wedding to go to soon.


End file.
